Divine Touch
by Caelta
Summary: Following the breakup of a seemingly inseparable companionship, our dear Cynn is thrust into the roll of princess just as quickly as Mhenlo is forced to take the place of the late Master Togo.  But you know what they say about distance...


A/N: Truly, I never saw myself writing GW fiction. To be honest, I haven't even played the game much at all in the past...well...forever. But we all know what happens when plot bunnies strike! And also, there is a dissapointing (although, at risk of sounding a teensy bit biased, unsurprising) lack of good fiction in this fandom. Nevertheless, here I am. And here you are too. There's also a pretty little review button down there too, if you'd be so nice as to click it. It's very lonely; I'd go so far as to say it doesn't see much action. But, even if you don't feel like taking pity on a poor, lonely button (or a poor, gnawed-on-by-bunnies author) then I'll still be here.

This is for Sari. Because she is one of the most amazing people who ever lived.

Also, I don't own. Honestly. If I did, I swear I'd play more.

...'kay, I'll shut up and let you read now. Deal?

* * *

Cynn didn't want to be a princess—not really. There were instances it came in handy, and it was all well and good on paper, but in practice…there were much better things she could be doing, by far.

As much as she despised the position, however, the fact of the matter was that she'd signed up for it. Granted, she hadn't really been in her right mind at the time…but, truly, what was a girl supposed to do when, in the heat of an argument, three very nice men come along and offer to whisk her away, treating her like royalty all the way?

She'd thought that it would hurt him, just a little, and teach him not to treat her like so much of a child. She'd expected him to protest, to beg her not to do it, to come after her on his knees and confess he was wrong as he rightly should.

The problem with Mhenlo was that he was virtually _always_ right. What she'd expected, what she now knew to be childish fancies—because she _had_ been a child—had deserted her three months into living at the newly constructed palace. For days she'd sat by the window in hopeless vigil; each clop of hoof on cobble was his horse, each tattooed head was his. But as each day ticked by, her confidence diminished more and more until, finally, in a fit of bitter tears and searing flames, she'd admitted to herself that he wasn't coming.

Of _course_ he wasn't coming.

He'd called her a naïve child, and to spite him, to prove him wrong, she'd accepted the responsibility of ruling of what was now New Surmia. She'd only proved him right that day; she wasn't cut out for this royal business, with all its documents and counselors and adversaries. Where were the charr; where were the devourers; where were the beasts, the thugs, the battles?

Cynn was stuck doing the bidding of her allies and listening to advisors instead of ripping apart and setting fire to her enemies on the battlefield, and she had no one to blame but herself.

She hadn't seen him in over a year, since they'd yelled at each other—Mhenlo had _yelled_ at her—and she'd roped herself into this contract.

Her last words to him? "I won't suffer your foolishness a moment longer. Leave."

…and so he had. And so had she.

Across a span of months, the only news she received of her former companion was from listening to the monks in the lower quarter; it was apparent that he, too, had been busy with alternate responsibilities, for now he took Master Togo's place as head of Shing Jea Monastery.

To be sure, she'd checked a map; that was a hell of a long way from Surmia.

Less and less time could be devoted to dwelling on the matter of her lost friendship as her agenda as princess—and, in a few weeks, queen—grew, but it gnawed at her nonetheless that the mistake had been hers. Now, she only prayed for a letter—a sign of forgiveness.

When she'd lost him and come to Surmia, she'd lost all of them; ironic, how she was now more alone than ever in a place that had once been her home.

"Miss!" And that would be Mister Gremmel Pierce, hurrying to fetch her off of the roof. "Miss, it's not safe up there! Princess, please, what if the city hears of this?"

"Don't bother me," she called down less than jovially. "That's an order."

The poor man seemed to struggle a moment, opening and closing his jaw, before finally jogging back inside to enlist more help, no doubt. She wasn't particularly pleased with herself for abusing her power and torturing the man, but it was for his own protection.

Without at least _some_ time to herself, to try to straighten things out, she was sure she'd set fire to the entire country.

A lithe wave of her hand, and she held in her palm a perfect sphere of burning fire—so much power, and all of it was going to waste. All the elements at her beckoned call, and she couldn't so much as step outside these walls to jab a few charr. Pathetic.

"Miss! Princess Cynn!" And he was back, in record time. "There's a band of acolytes to see you directly—they say there's trouble in the North!"

"Mister Pierce, I believe I told you to go away, in not so many words." By now, she'd learned the culture—to talk like they did, in their fancy flourishes and rhetoric. A bunch of tosh to fluff an otherwise frank statement, in her opinion.

"Yes, but—"

"What part of _don't bother me_ don't you understand, you fool?"

"Princess Cynn…" he floundered while she seethed. "This is hardly the behavior fit for a princess."

"And I'm hardly a princess, Mister Pierce. I think we can both agree on that, at least."

He didn't have much of a response for that, and when she more or less threatened him with a fiery tempest lest he didn't do as commanded, he took off inside, albeit reluctantly. The secrecy of her hidey hole had officially been compromised; if she didn't leave, she knew that more would come looking for her, some decidedly less impressed by fire than poor Gremmel.

Down to the top floor it was, in through a window shut fast behind her. Normally, the top floor of the palace was rarely used, except in special cases.

It would be just her luck that today just so happened to be one of those special cases.

From the moment she stepped through to the outside corridor, it became very apparent that something was happening. Servants, maids, and carts all hummed and clanked past in a very high to-do fashion, stirring her curiosity. Was there an important lord, or perhaps an ambassador, visiting?

Usually, it was the important officials like that who were housed at the top.

Not quite curious enough to get herself discovered, however, Cynn quickly ducked into the door another man had just exited, wary of the guard that had just rounded the corner.

_Guards_? _Now_ she was interested. Maybe if she'd listened to Gremmel and hauled herself off of that roof, she'd know a little more about what was going on, here.

"If there is no more from Mistress Laudna, I would very much appreciate it if there were no more disturbances, please," sighed a voice behind her. "I've had a long trip, you understand. Please don't take it personally."

She squeaked, whirling on her heel to face the speaker and preparing to swear him to secrecy. He was shielded from view by a thin drape over the frame of the bed, silhouetted against the veil by the setting sun.

…but there was no mistaking that _voice_, or the outline of his lean form.

Cynn gaped in horror, aghast. The door was right behind her. IF she could just get herself to move, could reach back, she could beat a hasty retreat and…

"Is something the matter?"

_Oh, no._

An arm reached around the veil—his elegant, toned, _beautiful_ arm—to push it back, and there was nothing she could do.

_Move. Move, damn it!_

But it was too late. Mhenlo had already slid away the drape and was on his feet, approaching carefully, brow knitted in concern. She could only turn her face downwards, staring abashed at her feet, guilty as charged.

"Was there something you wished to say to me, Miss….?" He hadn't recognized her.

As relieved as she was, it was almost disappointing.

"No," she muttered. "Sorry." As soon as movement had returned, she lunged for the exit and opened it gratefully, thanking Dwayna he hadn't asked anything else of her.

…only, it was a tad difficult to maneuver her way through a doorway when someone had a death-grip on her wrist.

"Cynn…!" Breathless, like he didn't believe himself.

_Well, so much for that idea._

Slowly, she turned to face him. "Yeah." Sheepish. "You're about nine months late, you know."

He didn't even hear her, grabbing her shoulders to drag her into a bone-crushing hug, and suddenly she felt guilty for more than one reason.

"Cynn, gods, it's been too long," he choked over her shoulder.

Had she been the only one agonizing over having had that argument? Had he forgotten what she'd said to him?

"Yeah."

"I came to Surmia to meet with Mistress Laudna, you see," he explained quickly, "but…I never expected to see _you_, Cynn. I'm glad to be proved wrong. Why aren't you…?"

"Sitting in a golden throne, holding a diamond scepter, and ordering around my servants?" scoffed the elementalist. "Mhenlo…" _Here we go_. "You were right. I was a child. I came here to prove to you that I could be responsible, but…I'm no princess. I can't do this. And…I'm sorry."

He pulled back, roving over her face in something akin to astonishment. "…all this time, and you…?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry, gotta problem with that?"

That brought a smile to his face, dimples and all, and she sent an inward glare to whichever god had done this to her. "I suppose it's my turn?" he cautioned silkily. "I raised my voice to you, Cynn, and for that I apologize. I'm afraid I may have put you in this situation by calling you childish. Furthermore, I'm deeply sorry I haven't come to you sooner. I…hope you can forgive me."

_He_ was sorry? _He_ apologized?

It was blasphemous.

"Mhenlo, _I'm_ the one who's sorry, here. Stop stealin' all my fire, will ya?"

"Gladly," was his amicable answer, of which she approved. "Your fire _is_ quite formidable."

And so, easier than she might have expected, she was forgiven. It was an impressive burden off of her shoulders, and she found that in the midst of her relief his hands were still firmly locked on her shoulders. With the humility to pause and enough dignity not to look away, she moved fluidly around him to sit at the edge of his bed, breaking the contact.

There was an unexpected knock at the door, loud enough to interrupt her thoughts and send her careening to her feet, and then a voice that followed: "Master Mhenlo?"

So it was _Master_ now, was it? She barely concealed her scoff.

Answering with only marginally less surprise than herself, the monk approached the door questioningly, and the detached voice continued: "I'm ever so sorry if I'm interrupting anything, but I'd like to make a quick inquiry, if you will, about the whereabouts of the resident princess." Mhenlo looked back to exchange glances, taking in her vigorous head-shaking with slight amusement as the voice behind the door, the good Mister Pierce, plunged on. "You haven't seen her, have you? That is…it would be remarkably simpler to converse without shouting through a door, don't you think?"

Blinking across at her in silent inquiry as she mouthed the word "NO," he quickly assessed the situation and proclaimed "One moment, please, sir," before coming to her.

"I believe there's something you haven't told me," he chided pleasantly, voice lowered to a mere whisper.

"Later," she hissed. "I'm not here, 'kay?"

He hummed something that wasn't quite the assent she desired before strolling back to the door, and she quickly dove head-first for the nearest cover, which happened to be his bed, before he could open it. When he did, her firmly situated behind the swaying veil and trying to peek out from behind it as she pressed herself to the sheets, it was only to swing the panel just a few scant inches wide with no pretense of admittance.

Something she hadn't noticed, because he'd done it during her previous scramble: his shirt, a gold-embroidered tan-colored spectacle, was clumsily unbuttoned to the abdomen, a few buttons haphazardly skipped over in his haste.

Clearly, their uninvited guest hadn't the faintest clue what to make of this new development. She quickly caught on, realizing that this was precisely the reaction the monk was expecting.

"Good evening," she heard Mhenlo say. If she hadn't seen his lips move, she wouldn't have known it was him; the way he said it, utterly breathless and hoarse, gave her a very new perspective on a man she thought she knew.

"Ah—" Poor Gremmel had the good grace to look dumbstruck and ashamed. "If you would prefer that I come, uh…at a later time…"

"I would not prefer that you come at all, no. Is there a problem?"

Her pursuer's face turned an unseemly, blotchy shade of red, and she snickered unwittingly. Both gazes flicked up at the outburst, louder than intended, and she quickly clamped a hand over her mouth.

"This will only take a moment, dear—try not to get too impatient," Mhenlo emphasized, and Cynn was dually impressed with his uncanny ability to keep his cool—considering what he'd just said was liable to have her suffocating herself for laughter.

This gave Gremmel the jitters all over again, jumpy man that he was, and he hastily bowed out with as much speed as the situation dictated, loping off as if he had on oni at his heels.

It was all too much for Cynn, notwithstanding the fact that she'd had no _idea_ Mhenlo had any theatrical skill whatsoever, and when he finally shut the door she gasped for breath in a series of short cackles.

"That was positively evil," commended the elementalist. "I had no idea you had that in you."

In three short strides he'd closed the distance between them and was now standing over her, smirking distinctly. "I take it my audience is appreciative?"

"_Appreciative?_ Where in all of Tyria and Cantha combined did _that_ come from? Where have you been hiding all of that…that…" _spectacularly fetching behavior?_ "…preposterously uncouth mind?"

"There has been an unprecedented amount of hiding today. I would actually like to know why I was put up to enacting that display…if you don't mind, of course."

She squinted. "You know, I think Cantha's been a bad influence on you."

"It's a possibility," he responded fondly.

When he didn't make a move to sit down, when he only gazed at her patiently and expectantly, Cynn realized that he wanted something: an explanation. She wasn't going to get out of it so easily; though his stance was non-threatening, there was a firmness in his stare that said this could be changed quite easily.

"I may or may not be shirking my duties," she told him in a small voice.

"I see."

"Mhenlo," she pleaded, not liking his deliberate vagueness. "You know I'm not conditioned to be royalty. You know this isn't me."

"I know." Gingerly, he lowered himself beside her, a tentative hand teasing over the skin of her arm. "I should hope you know this isn't what I wanted for you."

"I know." A pang of guilt, and then: "I'm sorry."

"Please don't be," answered the monk gently. A glance upwards, meeting her confusion, and then a sigh. "I…I have been a great many places and met a great many people, even before our…separation, and even so, none can compare to what Ascolon, and you, mean to me."

In a flurry of self-conscious panic, she ducked her head. "Don't go getting sappy on me."

But he continued, only pausing in acknowledgement of her discomfort. "I know that now more than ever. I should have come to you directly; I wanted to. I'm sorry I did not. When I spoke that you were infantile, it wasn't what I meant. By that time, I already knew I would be leaving, possibly to never see you again. If I had told you then what I had wanted to tell, it would have prevented this."

Cynn could only blink dumbly, caught between a snappish remark and her true thoughts. In the end, truth won out. "What is it…that you meant to say to me?"

It was his turn to look away. "T—"

And yet, as if the fates themselves had conspired against them, there was another knock at the door. This time, it was a servant. "Master, it is my duty to announce to you that Her Highness the Princess Cynn of New Surmia has requested your presence at her table this evening. Should you accept, you dine within the hour."

Following this prompt declaration, Mhenlo turned to look at Cynn. She returned the look wholeheartedly.

After a moment of unanimous skepticism, he was the first to break the silence with, "You request my presence, Your Highness?"

"Apparently so, Master Mhenlo."

With a generous twist and flourish, he was on his feet, and then his knees. Head bowed beneath her, he reached up to retrieve her reluctant hand and, with more gusto than she would've imagined, brushed each knuckle over the flesh of his lips. "It would be an honor, Princess Cynn."

Under no circumstance did Cynn blush. She simply was not the type of person to become caught up in chagrin. This was not to say she was immune to the sentiment, but for the most part she knew how to steer clear of it.

When she saw the monk kneeling at her toes and felt his light touch on her wrist, his breath over her skin, the modesty and fullness to his words, however, the heat creeping up along her cheekbones was undeniable. It was unthinkable, his behavior.

She'd had countless citizens, servants, lords, and others bow to her title and touch their hot breathing mouths to her hand and not once felt even a tinge of vexation, but this—seeing _him_ lower himself to her—was _wrong_.

"Get up, you fool," she commanded dryly, and he rose without question. "Mhenlo, if you _ever_ bow to me again I _will_ set your clothes on fire."

"Is there a problem, Princess?"

"Yeah." She grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him back down next to her on his roomy bed. "Several, in fact. First on the list is why I'm not invited to my own banquet. Second, stop calling me that."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

She glared daggers, but seeing as her forte lay in the elemental arts instead of the weaponry of assassins it only succeeded in accomplishing a smirk from the intended recipient. "You're insufferable. I bet this is all Pierce's doing. He's my advisor: a well reasoned, sensible man, but loves to make decisions for me."

"Is that not what he was employed to do?" countered the monk. "After all, don't you forfeit your right to make a decision you ultimately want nothing to do with?"

Cynn couldn't argue with that. Standing to leave, she could only sigh. "I never said the man wasn't useful, you know. Just bothersome. Kinda like you."

And with that parting remark, she stooped herself down, hunched over the sheets and his lap, to plant a mocking kiss on his unsuspecting cheek. It was not exactly the most proper thing to do, or the most respectful, or even the friendliest, and yet since when did any of these terms carry and amount of consequence to the elementalist?

Outside his door, she could only ask herself _why_.

Why had she done it?

All around her, the world was crumbling down and being built back up, piece by piece, by the exactors and the victors. History was being made even as she stood, and it was a little uncanny to think of herself as a name in a document.

Cynn was a survivor. It was who she was and what she did, first and foremost. But she was also—according to the documents that would be written by the exactors and the victors—a hero.

She found that the word irked her.

Heroes, they called them—the men that killed to gain some tactical advantage, that shed the blood of the enemy and saw only death, that did the bidding of the more fortunate. It was a used, misused, abused sort of word that meant nothing to her either way.

She would rather have been a survivor than a hero anyday. A hero was a label—but _survival_—that was a special type of skill, of lifestyle, that echoed in her mind even after it was needed.

They were _all_ survivors: her, and Mhenlo, and Devona, Aidan, Eve, Nika. They had that in common, at least.

And being a hero and a princess was not what she desired or expected. If she had asked herself five years ago if she'd believe living in this fashion, she would've said no. The fact of the matter was that _they_ meant more to her than the empty titles and tedious business of royalty.

Her fellow survivors were all she had, even as the world crumbled and rebuilt—it was they that would linger on, much like the feeling at the back of her mind.

All this musing came to a head in her mind as she leant against the full panel of his door, separated only by a thin barrier of wood from her dear friend, and it was then she realized that she simply could _not_ take it anymore—not one more second.

Having walked away from him the first time, she was not about to make the same mistake again. Mere seconds after she had exited, the elementalist silpped feverishly back into the not unwelcoming glare of his room.

"You didn't forget anything, did you?" was his amicable greeting, and she played right off of it.

"Yeah. I did, actually."

He raised his eyebrows in request for explanation, but she gave none before stalking to his side, face washed earnest in all seriousness. Her hand sought out the side of his face and posted there like a well-trained warrior, not moving even an inch.

"I forgot to tell you a few things, Mhenlo: things I've been forgetting to say to you for probably going on five years."

If possible, his eyebrows rose even higher. "Go on."

"Alright. You're a sheer fool. You're nerve wracking. You're incorrigible. You're so nice it's painful. You're constantly almost dying for other people. It's insane. You've saved my life so many times it's embarrassing. You're _willfully_ bald and barefoot, which is pure madness. You're always ignoring your limits, and travelling to foreign countries, and attacking when you should be healing, and healing when you should be attacking. You're _confusing_."

In the face of this tirade, he looked on with mild shock and a touch of added color to his cheeks that she could feel beneath her fingertips. After an intrusion of silence, he answered her in a low voice, smooth and placid.

"What is it that you ask of me?" His hand floated up to cover her own on the side of his face, resting there like it was for all the world its business to do so, and that made her feel a tad dizzy. "You wish for me to let you die at the next opportunity? To throw manners to the wind?"

"Yes! I mean, no, I—uh—I wasn't finished. That is, as I was _going_ to say before I was so rudely interrupted: that, despite all of that, and you being the most incomprehensibly frustrating person I know, you're also the best. And I can't do it again, Mhenlo—the sitting here on my royal hind end and waiting, hoping you haven't gone and done something so dangerously _you_ that you've finally killed yourself, and not knowing when I'll get to see you again."

His fingers twitched on hers, eyes squinting to get an impossible read on what she was thinking. "I'm truly sorry, Cynn, for doing that to you. I'll write to you—every day if I must, if that keeps you content."

"_No_, you addlebrained bonehead! You don't understand!"

"Please, help me to understand," the monk soothed, and his gaze held hers as a paragon of patience.

"I don't want you to _write _to me; I want _you_. All of you, every day, in front of me!"

This seemed cause for a minute lapse of control, where his serenity was interrupted enough for his lips to part in slack disbelief. Within seconds, however, he had recovered himself and was sitting before her rigid, wall of calm back in place. "What solution do you propose to this dilemma, then, seeing as I cannot be in two places at once?"

"Mhenlo…" She was about to burst. "For _Dwayna's_ sake, will you _please_ stop being so damn nice to me? I want you to tell me _exactly_ how you feel—at this very moment. No manners, no filters, n exceptions or glazing things over—just you."

Allowing for a moment of sheer nothing, his face a blank slate, his hand dropping from hers as if gravity had only suddenly taken hold of it, she could see a clear myriad of sentiments flickering in the liquid of his eyes and in the space between his two eyebrows.

"Cynn…" It was like a question and a reassurance all at once, and with that one word, her name, ushered from his lips, his wall fractured. His hand, finding itself, came up to return her gesture, cupping her cheek in earnest—and even that minute contact, his ginger touch, was divine.

"My father, as you know, pledged his allegiance to Dwayna, and my mother…to Balthazar. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, and out of that union was borne myself. Because of this split allegiance, however…my decisions are unlimited, and my choices twice as difficult. I have two paths laid out before me, Cynn. But there is one thing of which I know I _am_ sure: a desire that I would not live another day, no matter how, without you in it. When it comes to you, I believe I haven't a choice at all. That, I think, is a relief."

"You mean you…" All her unvoiced fancies, dreamt up as she sat gazing out of royal windows or fought vermin at his side, playing out before her, better than she could've imagined them…and she couldn't even finish her sentence.

"There are other nobles, if you wish it, that you may appoint in your place. This country is not so lost that you do not have the luxury of a retirement. The choice is yours, if you would make it."

Speechless, was the word. Vaguely, the elementalist wondered what they were waiting for.

With his gentle vise still splayed across her cheek, she found the decorum to grin lavishly at his lucid anticipation. " 'If I would make it'?" she parroted.

In his responding nod, Cynn found the courage to shed what childhood illusions of princesses were still harbored and step into him with every intention of voicing her decision—because this was infinitely better, being a princess in his eyes only, and the welcoming embrace of his lap was the only throne she would ever need.

"Mhenlo, if you gave me this choice every day a thousand times over, you know I'd choose you every time."


End file.
